Happy Is The Bride That The Sun

Our Present Tears Here, Not Our Present Laughter Are But The Handsells Of Our Joys Hereafter.

He Who Has Suffered Shipwreck, Fears To Sail Upon The Seas, Though With A Gentle Gale.

Let Wealth Come In By Comely Thrift, And Not By Any Sordid Shift; 't Is Haste Makes Waste; Extremes Have Still Their Fault. Who Gripes Too Hard The Dry And Slipp'ry Sand, Holds None At All, Or Little, In His Hand.

Tis Not The Food, But The Content, That Makes The Table's Merriment.

Give Me A Kiss, And To That Kiss A Score; Then To That Twenty, Add A Hundred More: A Thousand To That Hundred: So Kiss On, To Make That Thousand Up A Million. Treble That Million, And When That Is Done, Let's Kiss Afresh, As When We First Begun.